Italian. Evidently she disagreed with the
turn-of-the-century architect's concept of Italian villas; her first
move was to rip the place apart, replacing the marble balustrades with
wrought iron and the leather wallpaper with plain stucco, while
all the gold furnishings, piano included, were shipped to an auction
room in New York to be knocked down to the highest bidder.
Mr. Frank Sears's mother, Mrs.
Francis Sears, owned the pro-perty where the Post Road joins the bypass.
She was reputedly the only person in Weston who ever got the
better of Mr. Robert Winsor. There was an article in the town warrant to
widen Central Avenue, with special emphasis on
eliminating a sharp corner near its junction with Wellesley Street. The
sponsor of the article announced that Mr.
Winsor had shown great generosity in offering the town a gift of one
thousand dollars towards the project — providing, however, that the land
taken be across the street from his own. This meant Mrs. Sears's
property. She was soon on her feet and announced that she would give the
town two thousand dollars if they would take the
land from Mr. Winsor. The article passed over.
One final story about the Frank Searses: my family was hav-
ing a dinner party at which they were among the guests. It was
a warm spring evening and the dining room windows were open. My cousin,
Chandler Robbins, was visiting us and we thought it might be interesting
to disguise him as a prowler and have him peer through one
of the open windows at the grownups. So we blackened his face with
grease and charcoal, put him into an old dressing gown of my mother's —
maroon with a gray fur collar —concocted a wig out of a dry mop and
perched a shapeless old